Harry woke up the next day feeling surprisingly well for someone who’d been ambushed a mere twelve hours previous. The potions, not to mention Professor Snape’s back rub, had done their work well, and he practically bounced down the hall as he accompanied his professor to breakfast. Of course, waking up in his brilliant room, with the professor gently patting his shoulder, was enough to put him in a good mood, accustomed as he was to the Dursleys shouting angrily at him through the cupboard door.

Snape regarded the cheerful urchin at his side with disfavor. He hated morning people. Not that he was particularly fond of anyone else, either, but he felt that people who woke up with a smile on their face and a song in their heart should be drowned in their morning porridge. And what did the little monster have to be so happy about? He’d practically shaken the snot out of the brat to wake him, and he’d only avoided using Aguamenti because he didn’t want to have to spend time on the inevitable drying spells afterwards. “Potter,” he ground out between clenched teeth as Harry took a running jump at one of the hanging tapestries to see if he could touch its lower border. “If you do not comport yourself with appropriate dignity, I will lead you through the halls by the ear.”

Harry gave him a long, considering look, and for a horrible moment, Snape feared the brat would call his bluff, but in the end the boy grinned and shrugged. “’kay, Pr’fessor,” he said agreeably. “C’n I have pancakes for breakfast?” he asked a moment later.

Snape eyed him assessingly. That timing was almost Slytherin. “Pleeeease?” Harry said, doing his best “puppy dog eyes”.

“Only after you have had some fruit and a small bowl of oatmeal,” Snape said sternly. “I will not have you load up on sugar and syrup and then buzz around the castle for the rest of the day.”

Harry rolled his eyes. “I wouldn’t!”

“Hmf,” Snape gave him a skeptical look, but said no more on the subject.

“Pr’fessor?” Harry ventured a moment later.

“Yes?” he replied forbiddingly.

“Are you going to be brewing tonight?” Harry asked over-casually.

Snape sternly suppressed the twitching in his lips. So that’s what the brat was after. “Perhaps,” he said noncommittally.

Harry trailed one finger against the wall as they walked. “So maybe you’ll need some help getting ingredients ready?” he offered, in the same noncommittal tone.

Snape rolled his eyes at the boy’s transparency. And worse yet, the brat actually felt that preparing potion ingredients was fun! He liked spending time in the dungeons, and he had gotten into the appalling habit of bringing various Gryffindors down with him. What was Snape supposed to use as punishment if the new first years all wanted to spend time squishing bubotubers and pickling newt eyes? He had been appalled the first time Harry had squealed in delighted horror and awarded the previously onerous task the ultimate pre-teen accolade of “GROSS!”

Now he and Weasley, and even the previously petrified Longbottom, had taken to “dropping by” his lab in the hopes of being able to gut, skin, squish, or mince something. Snape knew gloomily that it was only a question of time before the little know-it-all got wind of it, and once she started insisting on coming, the Ravenclaws would be close behind. Then his snakes would start complaining that he was leaving them out, and the Hufflepuffs would look sad and mope around at their exclusion and then what was he supposed to do to make his detentions the most hated and feared punishment at Hogwarts? He would lose his Evil Bat of the Dungeon reputation, and it was all this brat’s fault.

He glared at the little monster. “I’m not sure yet,” he snapped.

“Oh.” Harry looked disappointed, but he wasn’t squelched for long. “Well, maybe we’ll come by just to check.”

“I will not write you excuses if you miss curfew,” Snape threatened, “and if Filch catches you, you’ll be scrubbing toilets with a toothbrush.”

Harry shrugged dismissively. “Like I haven’t done that before. At my relatives, Dudley used to try to make me use the toothbrush afterwards,” he remembered, shuddering, and Snape silently vowed that when Harry did get a detention with Filch, he would give the squib very clear instructions on exactly how Harry was to be treated and what he was not to be expected to do.

“You may come by this evening, after you have completed all your homework. I expect you to show me your essays if you appear, so do not waste my time by turning up without them.”

Harry sighed. Professor Snape had made good on his threat to tutor him, and he insisted on reviewing Harry's homework at least three days a week. Harry had to admit that the professor had been invaluable in helping him learn how to structure and research an essay, not to mention present his ideas clearly, but he wasn’t all that happy having to rewrite his homework several times when Ron and the other kids seemed able to turn in any old thing. He glanced at the professor, wondering if he could risk lodging a protest, but a glance at the stern visage vetoed that idea.

He understood that the extra work now would pay off in the long run, and he had been delighted to learn that the professor considered him clever and had high expectations of him, but he was practically spending as much time with his nose in his books as Granger! Only his classmates’ knowledge that Snape was double-checking all his assignments ensured that he had their sympathy, rather than being scorned as a bookworm. Harry had made one muted protest when Snape had insisted he rewrite a Transfiguration essay for the third time, and his professor had given him such an evil look that Harry half-expected to have earned 500 lines of “I will not try to be a dunderhead” – which he’d overheard Snape assigning to one of his Slytherins whose Potions essay had apparently shown signs of insufficient effort. Instead, Snape had done something much, much worse.

He had gotten up, opened the door, and gestured that Harry should leave. “Out, Potter,” he had snapped when the boy had merely sat and stared. “If you have the ingratitude to resent the investment of my time, then you are more than welcome to be responsible for your own scholastic endeavors. But Merlin help you if you do not achieve the grades I expect from my ward.”

“But – but – “ Harry had protested incoherently. A wave of panic surged over him. How could the professor think about kicking him out like this?

Snape’s face had softened somewhat at Harry’s obvious terror. “I am not evicting you from these quarters, you foolish brat, but I have better ways of spending my time than trying to pound first year concepts into a stubborn skull. If you are uninterested in my help, you may leave my sight. Go study by yourself or with your little friends.”

Harry had started to sniffle. “But you said you’d help me,” he argued, ignoring the fact that he had, bare moments ago, been longing to escape Snape’s study.

Snape had hidden his smirk. Gryffindors – easier to play than a tambourine. “And did you not just indicate you no longer desired my help?” he demanded.

“I didn’ mean it,” Harry mumbled. “I want to stay.”

Snape exhaled gustily. “And here I was looking forward to working on my research.” Harry peered up at him pleadingly. “Oh, all right then. Get to work on that essay,” Snape grudgingly consented, finding it hard not to snicker as Harry’s doleful face was instantly transformed into a beaming smile.

After Harry had finally finished the essay (again), Professor Snape had reluctantly approved it, and then he’d spent nearly an hour showing Harry a totally cool protection spell, “since you have demonstrated that you do – after all – have the necessary maturity to concentrate on such studies.” Harry might be a Gryffindor, but even he could identify a reward when one was handed to him, and he had relaxed, knowing that his professor wasn’t angry with him any longer. He also had to admit that the thrice-revised essay had gotten an excellent grade and won Harry a rare compliment from Professor McGonagall.

Harry frowned as he thought of that encounter. It hadn’t turned out nearly the way he’d expected, but that was how a lot of things went with his Professor. Something he thought was going to be awful turned out to be good for him. He sighed – the professor was probably even right about stuff like vegetables and sweets, as annoying as that might be. “Pr’fessor?” he asked, a thought striking him.

“Mm?” Snape was distracted from thoughts of the day’s lesson plan. “What?”

“Are those boys – Jeffreys and the others – going to be at breakfast?”

“No. They have been expelled from the school for their actions and were collected by Aurors last night. Aurors are wizard policemen,” he explained, at Harry’s blank look.

Harry’s eyes grew big. “What? Why?” he asked incredulously. After having each and every school year blighted by the attacks of his cousin and his goons, Harry had never imagined that the four Ravenclaws would be held accountable for their actions.

“They were all too eager to leave, rather than face my wrath,” Snape replied dryly. “And I had already made it clear to the Headmaster that I will not tolerate any threats to your safety. If he had not expelled those boys, I would have transferred you to another school, rather than give your attackers another chance at you.”

Harry stared at him. He’d never in his life had anyone stand up for him like that. His aunt and uncle naturally assumed that Harry had been the instigator in any conflict with Dudley, and even the teachers quickly came around to their point of view, since Dudley always loudly and tearfully protested his innocence while Harry knew better than to say a word in his own defense. Harry had been rather surprised that the older boys had been whisked away by the Headmaster, but in the post-Battle excitement, he hadn’t paid that much attention. But he had never, ever assumed that they would be expelled – and on his account!

“You mean it? You would have transferred me?”

Snape stopped and looked down at him. “Mr Potter, what are my two most important rules? I will give you a hint; their violation results in a sore backside for you.”

“N-not putting myself in danger and not disobeying,” Harry gulped.

“Exactly. Keeping you safe and healthy and –“ Snape grimaced, but he said it “- happy is my responsibility as your guardian. I will not tolerate any threats to your wellbeing, whether they are your own doing or those of someone else. Do you understand, you silly child?”

Wide eyed, Harry nodded. Wow. Snape really took this seriously. He must like Harry, at least a little, to want to keep him safe. Though right now he looked like he had bitten into a lemon. Harry knew that Snape didn’t like having to come out and admit to all the mushy stuff, but that was okay with Harry, because Snape showed how he felt all the time, whether it was by making sure he got good grades or giving him a back rub when he was too excited to go to sleep or making the Headmaster get rid of the boys who attacked him.

“Pr’fessor?” Harry asked in a very small voice.

“What is it now, Potter?” the man demanded grumpily.

“I l– “ Harry broke off. He couldn’t say it. He’d feel like such a wally and the professor would be just as mortified. “Um, thanks.”

Snape fidgeted awkwardly. “You’re welcome,” he said gruffly, dropping one hand onto the boy’s shoulder and giving him a little squeeze. There. More positive reinforcement for the little fiend.

By then they were at the Great Hall, and Harry headed for the student tables while Severus made his way to the staff table.

“How is Harry this morning?” McGonagall asked anxiously before he had even had the chance to seat himself.

“As annoying as ever,” he replied, ignoring her scowl.

“Really, Severus!” she huffed. “He has just been through a terrifying experience. I should think even you could summon up some compassion!”

Snape merely looked over to where Harry was now amusing himself and his table mates by using slices of melon to give himself a mustache. McGonagall followed his gaze and blinked. “Yes, he's quite the fragile flower,” he commented acidly. He wasn’t about to spread rumors that his ward was a delicate, emotionally unstable child. Of course he was, but having such weakness made public would hardly be in the boy’s best interests. Why did McGonagall think he had insisted the boy return to his quarters last night? He shook his head – old or young, Gryffindors had the subtlety of a brick.

Oh, great Merlin. Now Malfoy was following the lead of the youngest Weasley and seeing how many grapes he could stuff in his mouth at one time. Snape pinched the bridge of his nose. He had known that permitting the old House by House seating arrangements to lapse last night had been a dangerous precedent, and sure enough now the entire school was mingling, with appalling results.

Dear Lord Voldemort, Snape wrote in his mind, When you branded the Weasleys as blood traitors, was it due to their opposition to your rule or their truly appalling table manners? Further, can you please advise why – if pureblood heritage is by far the superior - children of said background appear infinitely easier to corrupt than half-bloods or Muggleborns?

Having speedily abandoned eleven years of rigid etiquette training, Malfoy – aped as always by Crabbe and Goyle – was now demonstrating how toast soldiers could be used as vampire fangs while Weasley tried to stick one in each nostril for some incoherent reason. Now Granger was scolding all of them for playing with their food and the boys were taking it much more respectfully than Snape would have anticipated. Perhaps Jones’ nearby proximity had been noted? And of course, his prefect was seated next to Percy Weasley, who appeared alternately delighted beyond measure and terrified beyond words. Even as Snape watched, Jones scooted a little closer and whispered something in his ear that made the boy blush to the tips of his ears.

The rest of his Snakes were scattered around the Great Hall, and he overheard Teddy Nott and Millicent Bulstrode – both scions of proud pureblood families – begging a Hufflepuff Half Blood to show them some Muggle artifact called a “gameboy”. Apparently the Hufflepuff’s older cousin, an Unspeakable, had managed to charm the object into working at Hogwarts, and his snakes were agog to play it. Of course, the Hufflepuff was agreeing to it, so now he would doubtless have Badgers wandering through his Tower’s common rooms.

Marvelous. Oh, and now Malfoy, Potter, and Weasley were in a shouting match with Granger and Longbottom about the high social value of Quidditch. Of course, the know-it-all was carrying most of the argument, but Longbottom was showing an unexpected tenacity in suggesting that maybe, just maybe, coursework was slightly more important than Quidditch standings. The other three boys were hooting him down, showing alarming amounts of half-masticated food in the process, while Crabbe and Goyle stolidly ate everything that remained in their vicinity - regardless of whose plate it was on.

Snape’s mood plummeted at the realization that he was going to have to side with the know-it-all and Longbottom when – as seemed inevitable – he had to intervene in the rapidly escalating argument. Now some of the upper years were beginning to pay attention as well.

“Hmmmm. I’m afraid Miss Granger isn’t learning to fit in well,” Minerva commented disapprovingly.

Snape scowled at her. “Because she hasn’t become a Quidditch-obsessed lunatic like her Head of House?” he asked nastily.

McGonagall scowled right back. “Quidditch is the most noble of sports! Its unique heritage is –“

“ - Irrelevant at an institution of higher learning!” Snape snapped. “Why you and the Headmaster insist upon permitting such a distraction –“

McGonagall smirked. “You’re simply jealous because you were never a very good player.”

While Snape choked in fury, Pomfrey sailed into battle. “Severus’ point is well taken, and you know it! The number of injuries that your stupid game causes every year –“

“Stupid game!?!” Hooch screeched. “I’ll –“

“Now, now,” the Headmaster tried, belatedly, to intervene.

The students’ arguments halted and all eyes turned to the staff table to see if the brewing riot there would come to pass. As a result, it was several moments before anyone realized that the doors to the Great Hall had been thrown open.